


"mine"

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: College, Established Relationship, F/F, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Reader-Insert, Smut, reader's a college student, sigh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 18:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20430695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: *deep sigh*So, this is smut. There's like the tiniest hint of a plot, but not really.





	"mine"

**Author's Note:**

> welp
> 
> never done a x reader thing before, but i've seen a bunch of them on tumblr and i thot it might be fun so uh i guess we doin that now
> 
> chrisT i can't believe i wrote this and also it hasn't really been edited because i can't make myself read it again right now without exploding sldfkjsdlkfsdjl don't @ me

Days like these are… well, they’re hard. And, really, it’s not anything terribly specific that makes it so, either. 

You wake up, take your medication, hiss out a slew of admittedly profane curse words as you nearly fall flat on your face at least three separate times while getting dressed (which makes you thank God for the billionth time that you’re the only person with a single in your wing, because you know you’d be the worst roommate _ever_—really, it’s a win-win for everyone).

You run to the communal bathroom just down the hall, knowing full-well you look like crap (unbrushed hair, yesterday’s mascara staining your under-eyes, feet bare on the tile because you’ve made it something of a habit to constantly forget your slippers on every single trip to the washroom)—you pass a couple of the Chinese exchange students on the way, both of whom are conversing emphatically in Mandarin (which, obviously, you can’t understand a word of for the life of you), and you give them a shy nod and a murmured greeting as you stumble on through. 

Minutes later, you’re dressed (sort of), your teeth are brushed, and when you look at the time on your phone, you have exactly 9 minutes to get to your Psych 101 class all the way across campus in the Henshaw Auditorium—which, _Fuck_.

It’s nothing new, of course (being late, that is), because you’re disorganized at best, and unquestionably chaotic at your worst—but, still, it’s stressful, snatching up a notebook you’d bought yesterday from Target emblazoned with the Batman logo and a pen that you aren’t quite sure even works and sprinting down the stairs of your dorm to get to class on time. 

You nearly slam directly into a couple people, and there’s a boy named Jacob who you met during orientation that catches you on one of your stumbles and gives you that charming, boyish smile of his and good-naturedly asks you what the hurry is. 

You mumble out a half-assed response (though Jacob doesn’t look perturbed by it in any sense) and sidestep him to cross the street, entering the lush main quad a moment later and speed-walking towards the auditorium. 

And, really, that’s pretty much how your whole day goes from there. 

You stop by the Starbucks on campus to grab some coffee after class (chai tea latte with two shots of espresso like always), catch up with one or two friends in between blocks, and, when that boy Derek from a couple nights back texts you asking if you wanna come over, you ignore it, because you know exactly what he wants from you, not even to mention it’s most certainly not something you’re willing to give. 

It’s late when you get back—well, 8:41pm isn’t terribly late, you suppose, but it _feels_ late.

The chilly East Coast autumnal breeze is making you sorely regret your decision not to bring a jacket as you enter your dorm, holding open the door for a couple other freshman who look just as harried (if not more so) than you yourself do, and, when someone yells “Wait!” as the elevator doors are closing behind you and a couple other students, you press the ‘Open Doors’ button despite everything inside you telling you not to bother. 

The doors open with a pleasant _ding!_ and the person enters and none other than Derek strides confidently in, smiling that gap-toothed grin of his and smelling like Old Spice and weed, and _Fuck, you should have just let the damn doors close, politeness be damned_.

He sidles up next to you like it’s the most natural thing in the world (which it isn’t), leering over you (he’s at least a good foot taller than you are) like you’re familiars (which you’re not), and, when the elevator stops at your floor to let you off, he follows even when you know damn well he doesn’t live there. 

“I have a girlfriend,” you say—and, really, you’re not lying. 

He just shrugs. “Gotta shoot my shot, right?”

“I’m not interested,” you quip back, and he doesn’t seem to care, following you closely into your wing (an all-_girls_ wing, mind you) and further down the hall. 

You pass a couple girls on the way, ones you know and are more or less friends with—they give you curious looks, because they’re the type to gossip and collect Instagram followers like paychecks and text the group chat all about the weird upperclassman coming with you into your room (even when it’s not their goddamned business in the first place); it’s annoying, of course, not to mention uncomfortable, but, really, you’ve got bigger fish to fry here. Courtney and Erin from Southern California can wait. 

“I felt a connection with you,” Derek pleads as you approach your wooden door housing a rectangular purple slip with your name scrawled neatly across it in black Sharpie, the warmth of his body far too close for your comfort.

“Look, I said I’m not interested, okay? I have a—“

“A girlfriend, I know,” he interrupts, and you shoot him a death glare that he immediately brushes off, leaning himself against your doorframe as you fish your key out from the pocket of your black leggings to unlock your door. 

“Do you? Because it doesn’t sound like it.”

“Just come back to my dorm with me, okay?” he tells you insistently, grazing a hand over your hip and letting out a slight huff when you instantaneously flinch away. “It’ll be fun, babe, I promis—“

The door swings wide open then, taking your key with it, successfully stunning the both of you into silence as you whirl around to see a trim figure standing in the darkened doorway—

_Natasha_.

Thank _God_.

She looks beautiful as ever in tight (ridiculously short) spandex and a Brown University hoodie that you’d gotten from your older brother from Christmas his senior year at the Ivy League college, her shoulder-length platinum-blonde locks slightly mussed, green eyes glinting almost dangerously in the dim yellowy lighting of the dorm hallway—she’s barefoot, and adorable, but those evergreen irises are staring through a taken-aback Derek with practically murderous intent; she’s slightly taller than you are, but a hell of a lot shorter than Derek, and still, she makes it work, if the way Derek audibly gulps beside you is any indication. 

“Can I kill him?” Natasha growls lowly, the question very clearly directed towards you even as her glare remains fixed steadfastly upon a rapidly-paling Derek. 

You let out a vaguely exasperated sigh even as tingles erupt throughout every inch of your being, and you can feel a familiar warmth settling lower and lower in your gut at the inane (read: _hot_ ) display of aggression. “No, Tash, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Derek blanches. “Wh—“

“Shut up,” “Shut up,” the two of you snap in unison, and you take a small amount of satisfaction in the way the tall upperclassman visibly shrivels in response before meeting Natasha’s intense green eyes with your own. 

“I missed you,” Natasha says then, her voice rough and husky and _honest_—the heat pooling in your belly only grows. 

“I missed you, too,” you reply without a moment’s hesitation, and Natasha’s full red lips curve into a deadly smirk, a single hoodie-clad arm abruptly reaching out to grab you by the shirt, her strong hand fisting the cotton fabric tightly before pulling you forward into the room.

You go without complaint (though you’re not sure why you’d ever bother yourself with resisting in the first place), and it’s not until Natasha’s pinning you up against your wall and slamming your door shut behind you (the room lit now only by the $10 lamp sitting upon your wooden desk) that you remember Derek, who’s probably standing awkwardly out in the hall, a flabbergasted expression on his round features.

(He deserves it, you think.) 

“Wh—“ You’re cut off immediately by the warm press of Natasha’s full lips against yours, the length of her body warm and solid against you, her deft fingers already fiddling with the waistband of your leggings even as yours scrabble for purchase upon her clothed shoulders. 

Natasha rips her lips away from yours for a moment and you whine loudly at the loss, immediately halting yourself at the predatory look in Natasha's eyes, dark pupils blown with lust, the displeased furrow in her brow. 

“Mine,” she snarls, a single hand reaching further into the front of your leggings and rubbing two fingers roughly agains the damp fabric of your lace thong in a way that has your breath instantly hitching in your throat as sparks of white-hot pleasure course through your body, your legs weakening beneath you.

“N-Natasha,” you manage to gasp out but she doesn’t reply, yanking your panties to the side and dragging a single digit through your soaked folds, lunging forward to swallow the audible moan that escapes you in response, her lips crashing against yours in a bruising open-mouthed kiss.

“Mine,” she rumbles again, the single word muffled by the kiss, and God, but you don’t really care what’s got her so riled up, why she’s pressing you against the wall and making you mad with pleasure and—

You scream into her mouth as two fingers enter you without ceremony, sinking fully into your depths until Natasha’s rough palm grazes your hypersensitive clit and you think you might cry with how fucking _good_ it all feels—you’re a wreck now: you can’t speak, can only whine and squirm and beg in wordless gibberish for more, your pliant body slumped between the hard press of Natasha’s body against yours and the solid wall behind you, your arousal coating Natasha’s fingers as they fuck in and out of you at a relentless pace, her palm grinding against your clit upon every dizzying thrust. 

Your orgasm approaches with startling speed (faster than it ever has, that’s for sure), and you try to warn Natasha, try to tell her that you’re close but all that comes out is a desperate whine as her digits sink into you and stay there, fingers curling against that rougher patch deep inside you that only she can ever seem to reach, the heel of her calloused palm grinding roughly against your clit. 

Your climax hits you like a tidal wave, then—your entire body shudders violently against Natasha’s, a long, sustained mewl escaping you that you’re sure is more than loud enough for every damned person on your floor to hear, overwhelmed tears welling in your eyes as Natasha’s open mouth presses wetly against the delicate skin of your neck and her teeth sink into your flesh and you can’t help but collapse bonelessly against her, an intoxicating fog settling over your mind as her wet hand slips out of your leggings (you whimper when her fingertips brush up against your oversensitive folds) and her strong arms wrap around your waist to keep you from falling. 

“I love you,” you murmur, slurred and incoherent and muffled by Natasha’s shoulder as you absentmindedly nuzzle yourself further into her warmth. 

But, “I love you, too,” she says back, her warm breath tickling your ear, and you can’t help but allow a lazy smile to stretch across your features to know that she heard you, that she’s telling you the truth, that she’s not leaving because of just that reason.

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? feedback? if you want?
> 
> also here’s the link to my


End file.
